


In Between Days

by refurinn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, But not quite, M/M, pieces throughout decades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refurinn/pseuds/refurinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade became engaged at age five. He's six by the time he meets the baby, is able to hold him in his arms. His name is Mycroft – yes, actually Mycroft – and he doesn’t cry like they’d warned him he might.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Between Days

**Author's Note:**

> My share of the April Showers Mystrade Exchange, written for Jannineish. It wasn't easy writing this, trying to stick to canon for the first time. Admittedly, I did rather skip out on all the actual canon parts, so I hope it's still all right. I hit a flew blocks with the arranged marriage prompt, but I did my best. All my thanks to Fiendfyre for being so wonderfully supportive and helpful.

**Age 6:**

Lestrade became engaged at age five. His dad had sat him down to tell him, face grim but eyes soft. His voice had been gruff, short and to the point, but it had always been like that. Lestrade remembers thinking it was almost comforting. His dad told him it was a good thing and Lestrade had nodded, shifting on the hard plastic chair, pointing the toes of his shoes down to see if they could touch the linoleum floor. They couldn’t.

‘Can I meet her?’ he’d asked. His mum had beckoned him over, then, and he’d slid off the chair to climb onto her bed instead, mindful of the IV line. She’d always had a wonderful smell, something warm and undeniably her. It was almost enough to cover the smell of disinfectant.

‘She’s not been born yet, darling,’ she’d said. Her voice was gruff, too, but not in the way his dad’s was. This was a new development, something raw and sore-sounding, something that had his dad holding out the glass of water before she could even reach for it. Lestrade remembers this fact, but not as anything significant, just as something that had happened. The progression of the day. He doesn’t remember whether it was sunny or drizzling, but he remembers looking at the cobwebs in the corners of the room as he lay at his mother’s side, tucking himself in close so she wouldn’t have to do it herself.

‘Well, when will she be born?’

‘A few months,’ his dad said, seating himself in the abandoned chair. It squeaked against the floor, but he silenced it by setting his feet down flat on the ground. Lestrade remembers that, too. He remembers wondering if his legs would ever grow to be that long. He wishes he had paid more attention to his mum, instead.

He remembers all this the day the baby is born, _she_ turning out to be a _he_. It’s the day after his mother’s memorial service.

Lestrade is six by the time he meets the baby, is able to hold him in his arms. His name is Mycroft – yes, actually Mycroft – and he doesn’t cry like they’d warned him he might. He blinks a lot, and Lestrade finds that curious. He can hear Mycroft’s parents apologising to his dad somewhere in the next room. He knows the tone because he’s heard it a lot in the last year. The last month, especially. He’s just learnt the word _apologetic_ and he’s happy to be able to identify it in daily life.

His dad’s shirt had been tucked in when they’d arrived at the house, but that and the presence of a belt were all that had changed from his normal appearance. The Holmes’ were wearing very neat clothing, not crinkled like the back of his dad’s shirt, but Lestrade had thought Mr Holmes’ shaved jaw didn’t look as nice as his dad’s scruff. Still, even at this age he’s learning about social class and it’s enough to warrant thought at why they are apologising so genuinely to someone of his dad’s standard. It’s enough to wonder how he and Mycroft even became engaged to begin with. He knows it had been explained to him once, on that first day, but Lestrade had been looking at the cobwebs. The cobwebs and not his mother. He can’t remember if her hand was warm on his arm, or if it was cold and clammy instead. He’d been thinking about where the spider might have been.

Mycroft’s hands are warm and he resolves to remember this. Small and warm and decisive, pushing Lestrade’s fingers away when they get too close. He’s fussy, but he doesn’t cry. Lestrade is proud of this.

It turns out to be the only time he holds the baby. He asks his dad if they’re going to visit again, one day in the garage. His dad’s got a dirty towel across his shoulders, fingers digging intently inside a car motor.

‘No, Greg,’ he says absently, smudging grease onto his nose as he rubs his fingers up it. He looked disgruntled with the result, forehead creasing as he stares at his hand. Lestrade lifts the pair of glasses from the tool cabinet and passes them over. ‘You’re, umm…’ He pauses for a long time after that, but that’s okay, this is a process. It’s better than the usual hand waving and awkward huffs Lestrade receives when asking questions. He knows not to ask anything relating to his mum anymore. His dad had had to sit down, the last time. ‘You’re not engaged anymore, so it… it doesn’t matter.’

‘Why not?’

‘Boys can’t get married.’ His dad wipes a sleeve across his face and the grease transfers to his cheek. He looks like Tommy Sanders from school when he’d dressed up as an American football player for Halloween last year. Lestrade had thought that was a stupid costume. Rugby was much better, according to the other boys. Lestrade had told him as much and Tommy had asked him league or union, which Lestrade didn’t understand. He didn’t understand why Tommy had laughed, either.

‘Why not?’

His dad looks uncomfortable. And tired. ‘Ask me another time,’ he says. Lestrade doesn’t; he resolves never to ask again. He doesn’t want his dad to sound tired anymore.

 

**Age 16:**

It gets better. Lestrade’s dad shaves his beard and, for some reason, that makes him look younger. He does it to combat Lestrade’s own idea of growing a beard himself. He can do that, now. His dad doesn’t think it’s that impressive but the girls at school do. Tommy Sanders is still baby-faced as ever and it pleases Lestrade to no end.

He knows what being engaged really entails, now, and he’s glad to have put it behind him. He still doesn’t know the reason behind the initial idea, but he can live with that. His dad hasn’t spoken of it in… well, not since then. He’s only just started speaking tentatively of Lestrade’s mum again. Small things.

‘She’d be proud of you,’ he’ll say awkwardly sometimes, clapping Lestrade’s shoulder. Lestrade thinks he must have seen the action on a TV show and figured that’s what fathers were meant to do. Lestrade doesn’t mind, he likes it.

He’s nearly forgotten about Mycroft. Nearly, because it’s hard to forget a name like that, and Mycroft was also the first baby he’d ever held which is probably some sort of milestone. Actually, he hasn’t forgotten much at all about Mycroft. There’s just not a lot to remember. He wonders sometimes who the boy grew up to be. Is he clever and posh, or is he a little hell-raiser? He wonders if Mycroft knows that he was engaged once. Probably not.

Lestrade’s on the footy team now. Tommy Sanders is as well, always bouncing and grinning and asking Lestrade whether it’s league or union they’re playing. Lestrade’s not the best player but he can tackle like a dog and he’s not averse to a little hard playing during practise. He’s got Sanders’ arms and legs pinned to the field, wondering how long he can hold him there before getting a penalty when the coach yells his name.

‘It was under three seconds!’ he argues immediately, on his feet the second he hears the voice.

‘Not that,’ Coach says, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Your dad’s here. Skedaddle.’

He thinks about that word the whole car trip. His dad is mumbling something about Holmes’ and can Lestrade just babysit for a while – well, no, not babysit, just… look after them for a bit, yeah? – and Lestrade is just staring out the window thinking about the word ‘skedaddle’. He wonders when people stopped saying it. When did they stop saying ‘scarper’, for the matter?

It takes an inordinately long time to get to their house, and Lestrade is well and truly aware of the segregation of social class by now but honestly, the properties out here are getting a bit excessive. He doesn’t remember this from last time. It at least gives him the opportunity to somehow shuffle out of his footy whites and into a pair of jeans. He leaves the jersey on because it was still early practise when his dad pulled him out and it’s clean, for the most part. His dad gives him a look when Lestrade leaves it on, but then, he sends Lestrade a lot of looks these days that don’t really mean anything.

When it’s announced that they’re almost there, his dad shoves a tie at him and Lestrade holds it for a moment before realising it’s not for him to wear. He ties it in a loose Windsor – full and not half, because he prefers it that way – and hands it back when the car is parked.

Mrs Holmes greets them at the door, which is nice, Lestrade’s not quite sure why he expected a butler or something, and they’re lead into and seated in what Lestrade assumes is a parlour. She asks Lestrade the usual questions about school, which he’s happy to answer, proud to be able to relay his good marks. Then Mr Holmes is there with his two boys in tow and it’s handshakes all around and small thanks until the front door clicks shut and Lestrade is left staring at two children out of the corner of his eye.

‘Where’ve they gone?’ he asks as Mycroft – god, that’s _Mycroft_ – tugs his sweater straight and sits on one of the armchairs. Lestrade tentatively takes the other.

‘Out for dinner,’ Mycroft says, and he sounds bored, but Lestrade suspects that’s just his speech pattern. The boy’s father sounds much the same. ‘They’ve matters to discuss.’

‘Okay,’ and yeah, that is something his dad had mentioned in the car. Maybe. The other boy, Sherlock, the young one, has toddled off out of the room and Lestrade wonders if he should go and round him up, wonders if he’s allowed to roam by himself, but Mycroft is staring at him. He rubs his jaw awkwardly and suddenly it’s not such a great feat to have stubble growing at the end of each day and just a slightly grass-stained footy jersey on. Maybe he should have thought this through.

Mycroft himself is still relatively small and scrawny-limbed. He’ll be tall, though, when he’s older. He’s got a sharp nose but his cheeks are still rounded. Baby fat, Lestrade supposes. Mycroft doesn’t blink as much now as when he was a baby, and the thought makes Lestrade lean back in his chair. He once had Mycroft’s entire body nestled in just two arms. It’s a rather odd notion.

‘Do you like school?’ Lestrade asks carefully.

‘That’s a trite question,’ Mycroft replies without looking at him. He’s looking at his brother instead, who has just wandered back into the room armed with a magnifying glass and a bug-catcher. The boy marches straight up to Lestrade’s feet and presents them proudly. Lestrade takes them and tucks them both between his leg and the edge of the chair.

‘I caught them,’ Sherlock declares solemnly, then begins picking at Lestrade’s shoelaces.

Lestrade lets out a short, ‘oi!’ and grabs him beneath the arms, hauling the boy up onto his lap. Sherlock looks startled until Lestrade asks him about the bug catcher, snatching it up with small hands and prying the lid off. He explains very slowly about the stick insect inside and Lestrade nods along, sparing periodic apologetic glances at Mycroft until Sherlock has finished. ‘Great,’ he tells him, then to Mycroft asks, ‘What’s a non-trite question, then?’

Mycroft gives him a pointed look. For what reason, Lestrade doesn’t quite know.

‘You’re good with him,’ he says in lieu of an answer. ‘He’s usually very shy.’

Sherlock turns his head to fix Mycroft with a stare.

‘Go get your train,’ Mycroft says, and then with an elbow to Lestrade’s chest, the boy is gone again.

‘Do you like…’ Lestrade reattempts. ‘Um, politics?’

‘I’m only ten,’ Mycroft says, and fixes him with a level gaze.

‘Yeah? That doesn’t mean you can’t like politics.’

Mycroft looks like he may be thinking something over. ‘Father wants me to like it,’ he says eventually. ‘I don’t know much about it, yet.’

‘Well, more than me, I’m sure. I’m pants at keeping up to date on matters.’

Mycroft’s shoes have gone slightly pigeon-footed, the points not quite touching the ground. Lestrade remembers how frustrating that used to be.

‘You’re quite tall, aren’t you?’

Mycroft looks suspicious. ‘Not yet,’ he says.

‘But you will be.’ Lestrade scratches his chin. He’s on uneven ground, here. His dad always taught him that you could get along with anyone, as long as you were nice. Different tastes only mean as much as your reaction to them. ‘Do you play an instrument, then?’

‘Piano.’ Then, hesitantly, ‘Do you play an instrument?’

‘Sort of,’ Lestrade says, leaning back. ‘A bit of everything, but nothing well.’

Mycroft’s chin raises up, in what may be subconscious pride. ‘I practise a lot.’

‘Yeah,’ Lestrade concedes, ‘but that’s only part of it. You need to have the talent to begin with. That’s cool that you can play that.’

‘And you… play football.’

‘I do,’ Lestrade grins. ‘I practise a lot, too.’

Mycroft gives an almost smile. ‘You have a good build for it. For running. You would do well in a profession that demanded that of you.’

A crash preludes Sherlock’s return to the room, and he comes in looking sheepish. He holds up the front of a train to Lestrade.

‘Here is part of the train,’ he says, and when Lestrade asks where the other part is, grins and shrugs.

‘Christ,’ Lestrade says, getting to his feet. ‘What have you done?’

What he’s done is somehow dismantled and then stepped on about four carriages of the train, and he seems impossibly gleeful as Lestrade attempts to pick up all of the tiny broken pieces. Mycroft points out that they have a vacuum, but it still takes Lestrade a good few hours of combing though the carpet to make sure no one’s going to step on something sharp. Mycroft puts Sherlock to bed –Lestrade’s not entirely sure what that entails but he doesn’t think it actually involves going to sleep – and then comes to keep him company.

When their parents arrive home, it’s to find Lestrade and Mycroft sitting in the kitchen with tea, Mycroft reciting as many former prime ministers as he is able and Lestrade drawing inaccurate caricatures for men he assumes are all moustached. His dad looks tired and the Holmes’ look weary, so the offer for tea is declined. Lestrade’s dad claps him on the shoulder, his well-articulated sign for “we’re leaving, now”.

‘I think you’re really interesting,’ Lestrade tells Mycroft when he sees them to the door. He holds his hand out and Mycroft shakes it firmly. ‘I’d be happy to hang out with you, any time.’

Mycroft looks pleased, and Lestrade thinks over that on the trip home. His dad is silent again, giving a mumble when Lestrade asks how the night went.

‘Don’t worry,’ is the only real answer he gives. ‘We won’t have to do it again.’

‘Okay,’ Lestrade says. He thinks about saying he didn’t actually mind, but he doesn’t think his dad was saying it for his benefit.

 

**Age 26:**

He has bad days, everyone does, but they aren’t often. He doesn’t let them be often. If he comes home to an empty apartment at the end of the day, mould on the walls and nothing in the fridge, he just has to sit down on his ludicrously old but insanely comfortable sofa and think about the good things he has. He has a hat, he has a badge, he’s got that part of his life sorted out. He’s got a good relationship with his dad, which is more than can be said for many in current times. He’s got a second-hand record store that’s opened up not far from where he lives and on the occasional Sunday they’ll do one-pound record deals. He’s got a cheap but functional record player he bought from the same guy on whose lawn Lestrade found said comfortable sofa. He’s been assured it doesn’t have fleas and as of yet he’s happily itch-free, so he counts that as another good thing. It’s good. Life is good.

He’s got… well, he’s got friends but not really outside of the force, and most of the ones he interacts with are a lot older than him. He goes for drinks sometimes with Johnson and a few of the others, Johnson who was his sergeant during his probationary years and who has always kept an eye out for Lestrade. Gregson thinks it’s some sort of father-complex, but Lestrade thinks, really, Johnson is just a good guy. He’s been helping Lestrade figure out the direction he wants to take and they’ve been doing some association with the CID. Lestrade’s applied for Trainee Detective Constable once and was rejected, which set him back a bit, but he’s got more experience under his belt now, and he’s already printed the forms again. He’s getting used to the paperwork. It doesn’t seem quite so daunting anymore.

So he’s got a hat and a badge and some older friends who like to ruffle his hair, but that’s okay, he doesn’t mind. He’s not had a motorbike for nigh on five years and he still doesn’t like to think about the circumstances that led to its unfortunate demise, but he kept the slightly-worse-for-wear helmet and mostly intact jacket that he likes to wear when he’s feeling confident. He’s got a car that’s old and rusted and rattles a lot but it works, and he bought it himself, so he’s got an attachment. It’s a good life, yeah. It’s good.

It could be better.

He could have food in the fridge, which would make for a nice change.

He could have kept in contact with Mycroft, that’s another thing. He doesn’t think about that. It shouldn’t make him feel as guilty as it does. He doesn’t owe the kid anything. Except he’s probably not a kid now, is he? He’ll be… what, twenty? Probably at some prestigious university, wearing sweaters and charming the pants off his teachers when he’s not locked in an argument with them. Maybe he’s not like that at all. Maybe he’s shy. Lestrade doesn’t think so, though. Then again, how would he know, he hasn’t seen him in years. It’s his fault. It’s… well, he doesn’t think about it.

But.

Then.

He does think about it.

He’s running down the pavement after some ratbag kid armed with a spray-can and a fork, and that’s classed as a weapon, right? He’s not using it to eat, which doesn’t leave many options for it. He’s also got Lestrade’s hat, and that’s bloody annoying but Lestrade is a professional, he’s a _professional_ , so he’s not chasing out of spite. The kid’s got a spray-can that he was probably about to use and a fork that is most definitely classed as a weapon, so it’s Lestrade’s duty to chase after him, hat be damned.

The kid’s thin and surprisingly good at dodging around citizens, but then Lestrade’s got the advantage of them all moving out of the way for him to get through. Stairs have always been Lestrade’s forte and he’s able to jump down them in only two hops which gains him a bit of ground, but then again, the underground’s probably a bit dangerous for a chase and maybe Lestrade should just let him go. File a report, maybe. The kid’s got a pretty distinctive tattoo on his leg.

He’s thinking about this and so it takes him a few seconds to realise the kid’s stopped, someone having grabbed him around the shoulders, and then Lestrade’s crashing into them and taking the kid down to the ground with him. Grabbing-guy has miraculously stayed upright and watches curiously as Lestrade pins the kid’s hands behind his back and cuffs them. He’ll get off with a warning and a slap on the wrist at the station, but for now Lestrade’s bloody pissed at him.

‘Here,’ grabbing-guy says, and bloody hell, this one’s even younger. He’s short but not as lithe, mop of sandy hair and an expression that looks like he’s trying not to grin. He’s got Lestrade’s hat proffered in one hand.

‘Thanks, mate.’

Hat safely back on his head, Lestrade is about to say more when the thinking about it happens. The thinking about Mycroft. The thinking about Mycroft because he’s _right there_ , Lestrade is sure of it. He’s tall, even sitting down, the only one on the bench who isn’t craning their neck to gawk at the scene that’s just gone down in front of them. Neat shoes at the end of crossed legs, newspaper open to the political pages, nose still sharp but face never having lost all its roundness. Ginger. It’s got to be him.

‘Umm,’ Lestrade says, and then gets his mind back. He places a call on his shoulder radio, then glances at grabber-guy who is still watching with wide eyes. ‘Can you sit on him?’ Lestrade asks, because he needs to find out, he needs to, but he’s still pissed off at the damn kind underneath him. A grin breaks out on grabber-guy’s face.

‘Yeah! I mean, really? Yeah, I can!’ and then Lestrade’s on his feet and grabber-guy is happily seated on the kid’s back.

‘Holmes,’ Lestrade says, and maybe-Mycroft lifts his eyes but not his head. ‘Mycroft,’ he adds, and definitely-Mycroft’s chin comes up defiantly.

‘Officer Lestrade,’ he says lightly, and Lestrade grins.

‘I’ – think about you all the time – ‘haven’t seen you in years.’

‘No,’ Mycroft says with not quite a smile, but maybe… well, _maybe_ it’s a touch of fondness. ‘I suppose you haven’t.’

‘Yeah, sorry.’ Lestrade rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, then abruptly gestures toward himself. ‘But look! A profession with running!’

The people beside Mycroft keep glancing at Lestrade, in between turning back to their books or phones or staring at guy-grabber still sitting contentedly.

‘So you did,’ Mycroft comments, and Jesus, the boy grew up nice. He’s got class, Lestrade will give him that. He doesn’t seem overly haughty, though. The fact that he’s waiting for a train is testament to that, at least for the meantime.

‘And you?’ Lestrade prompts.

‘University. I would suggest, perhaps, this would be a conversation better left for when my train is not about to pull in to the station.’ He’s got a watch but he hasn’t once looked at it, not while Lestrade’s been watching, at least. There must be a clock in the general vicinity behind Lestrade, or maybe he just heard it, because Lestrade finally hears the distant rumble of an approaching train.

‘Yeah,’ Lestrade says, and then thinks for a moment. That was… that definitely sounded like an offer, right? It must have been. ‘Well,’ he says, and clears his throat. ‘We should, you know. Catch up. Um… coffee?’ Lestrade doesn’t really drink it, but that’s not important right now.

Mycroft gives the newspaper a sharp shake that Lestrade’s never quite managed to master without dropping all the pages, and folds it neatly. ‘Of course,’ he concedes, but then he’s just standing there and Lestrade doesn’t know what to do. He panics.

‘Okay, yeah, okay, great,’ he manages to get out amid patting his pockets down. He’s got the stub of a pencil in one of them and, without thinking – god, Lestrade. Think, man! – writes his number on the edge of the newspaper. Mycroft watches him with a near-blank expression. ‘Yeah,’ Lestrade starts apologetically when he’s done. ‘Probably should have asked about that first.’

‘It’s fine,’ Mycroft says. ‘I’ll be in contact.’

Everyone around them is hurrying to get on the train, and Lestrade is startled to see that grabber-guy is one of them. He turns around, but the kid is in the capable hands of Constable Higgins, who seems unduly amused. By the time Lestrade turns back, Mycroft is gone.

He trudges back to the car behind Higgins and the kid and cringes after she shuts the back door.

‘Stole your hat, _really_?’

‘Disrespectful,’ Lestrade murmurs.

‘Bit extreme.’

‘Wait til it’s your hat,’ Lestrade says, getting into the front seat. He resolutely leaves his hat on his head.

Mycroft texts two days later, and it’s the beginning of a good day. It’s slow and boring, a lot of paperwork and sitting around. Trying to memorise the jargon that Lestrade should know by now. He’s been looking over some vice files like Johnson had suggested to increase his chances of being accepted as a TDC when the man himself comes to stand in front of him.

‘Patrol?’ he asks, and Lestrade has never felt so relieved to be able to just sit in a car.

It’s been calm for about an hour when Lestrade comments that he wishes something would happen. His dad had always warned him to be careful what he wished for. Johnson is swearing and that’s something new, and he’s ordering ambulances and police on the scene so it’s up to Lestrade to get to the car, first.

He’s used to chasing people, calming people down, he’s not used to this. He’s ushering the gathering crowd back because he’s scared of what he’ll find inside. There’s a lot of glass and one man inside, breathing heavily but breathing at least. He’s awake, and Lestrade talks to him, but he doesn’t remember much of what he said afterwards. He was too busy thinking how much the guy looked like his dad. He remembers holding his hand at some stage, trying not to look at the awkward way the guy’s body was twisted, his legs swallowed by crushed metal.

Lestrade asks his name and he says he has a will. Lestrade asks again and he says it’s in his top desk drawer. Make sure his parents get it. Lestrade asks a third time and he says Gerald, his name is Gerald.

When the paramedics arrive, they usher Lestrade out with gentle hands on his shoulders, and Gerald cries and squeezes his hand tight, holds on like a man dying. No, wait, not like that… fuck.

Johnson looks decidedly less white than Lestrade is, assuring Lestrade he looks like a sheet before tentatively raising the subject of finding the parents. Lestrade’s thinking about his own parent. He needs to call his dad. Just in case. He needs to make sure he knows.

The sun’s sitting low in the sky by the time the paramedics emerge from the car. Lestrade doesn’t watch. There’s an odd silence, broken only by the slamming of the ambulance doors. The sirens don’t turn on. 

They find the parents, the pair of them old and frail, and they sit together and clutch at each other’s hands. The father cries. The mother looks down at her shoes. Johnson does the talking, he’s got a really soothing aspect to his voice, says low and smooth how their son wasn’t in any pain at the end. He says _their son_ and Lestrade doesn’t think that’s right, thinks he should be saying Gerald instead. Gerald, a man named Gerald, here one day and gone the next. He really needs to call his dad.

‘Gerald has a will,’ Lestrade says when Johnson is finished, turning his cap anxiously in his hands. ‘In his drawer, in his desk. He just… wanted you to know. That and… he loves you.’ They deserve to know. It’s something they should hear.

He’s free to go, after that, and Lestrade sinks gratefully into his own car, trying to get the heater going with one hand. The tinny rings in his phone’s speaker echo around the confined space.

‘Lestrade,’ his dad’s voice says eventually, gruff as ever.

‘Dad,’ Lestrade says gratefully, sticking his frozen fingers into the air conditioning vents as they start to heat up.

‘You okay?’

‘Yeah. I love you.’

There’s a long pause on the other end, but Lestrade doesn’t mind that. He can still hear his dad’s breathing, and that’s nice in its own right.

‘What brought this on?’

Lestrade laughs but it’s hollow. He’s cold, he wants to go home. ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘I just love you. And mum, I love mum.’ Always love, never loved. It’s a rule.

‘Okay,’ says his dad. Then, ‘you too.’

That’s good, that’s enough. The heater makes a gurgling sound when Lestrade finally gets the motor running, and it makes an odd clanking noise at intervals during the drive home but doesn’t give in, which Lestrade is surprised about. 

At the front door, Lestrade takes a long moment to set down his keys and take off his excess uniform. He starts on the buttons of his shirt, too, then the laces on his shoes, just to buy some more time. His hands are shaking; legs, too. He’s not sure if he can walk the few metres to his bedroom yet.

His chest feels tight and that’s probably just a sign of oncoming sickness. Not anything else. Not anything like loneliness and fear. The muscles of his arms are starting to cramp from the shaking and he sits down abruptly, on the place where his welcome mat would be if he had one.

His phone beeps.

It’s Mycroft. He’s cancelling. He’s not offering a raincheck.

Lestrade stretches out on the ground and tries not to feel quite so pathetic. 

 

**Age 36:**

He’s still got the sofa. It’s a bit worse for wear but still comfortable as ever. He’s got a new apartment, a new badge claiming Detective Sergeant, a better record player that doesn’t crackle so loudly, but the sofa has survived. He’s slumped on it when the doorbell rings. Lestrade spent the better half of his weekend trying to get the thing to work again and he’s pleased with his efforts. He doesn’t bother moving.

‘You’re a lazy boy,’ comes his dad’s gruff tone from somewhere in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Did you bring me dinner?’ Lestrade asks.

‘I’ve got steak, but you’ll get none unless I find vegetables in your fridge.’

Lestrade heaves himself up at that, momentarily concerned at the contents of his fridge. In the kitchen, he’s greeted to the sight of his dad with raised eyebrows and crossed arms.

‘Well,’ Lestrade asks, ‘aren’t you going to check?’

‘I’m old, boy! We don’t all have young, supple backs.’

Lestrade flashes him a grin and crouches in front of the fridge, steeling himself before opening the vegetable crisper. By the grace of God, he finds himself staring at a head of broccoli and two carrots. Good enough.

‘Steak for dinner,’ he announces happily, and he can hear his dad laughing.

They’ve started doing this a lot more, recently. Meeting for dinner and a chat. Lestrade always offers to drive out to the house, but his dad claims he likes to get away from it, that he spends too much time there. He’s not retired yet, not anywhere near it, but he does a lot of work from home these days. Last Lestrade checked, he’d started a sort of local mechanic business in the garage.

‘You’re enjoying work?’ his dad asks while Lestrade’s chopping vegetables.

‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘It’s… well, it’s okay.’

‘Still getting a thrill out of helping people?’

It’s a bit of an inside joke, although not really. Lestrade’s never quite understood why his dad gets so much pleasure out of saying the phrase.

‘Yes,’ he says adamantly, with a sly glace across to his father. He’s growing a beard again, although it’s a bit uneven at the moment. It’s coming through as a sort of peppery colour, dark like most of his hair still is. Lestrade thinks it may be darker than his own hair, streaked through with silver at the sides already. He’s thought about dyeing it but he’s not sure he’d be able to work out how. It’s a trait from his mother’s side, and he likes having that piece of her in him. He’s certain he’ll be grey given another two years but there’s no shame in that. He had a girlfriend once who told him he would be a silver fox. In fact, he had a boyfriend who said something similar.

‘Are you still friends with that boy?’

His dad asks this every now and then. Lestrade’s sure he does remember the name, he just prefers to say “that boy”.

‘Yeah, _that boy_. I had lunch with Mycroft yesterday, actually.’

‘Like a date?’ When his dad talks, it’s always in a slightly huffy manner, like just getting the sound out is mildly embarrassing. Lestrade learnt early on that his tone isn’t a reflection of his attitude.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Not a date, dad. Just friends, remember what it’s like to have them?’

‘Cheek,’ his dad says with a smack to the back of Lestrade’s head. He seems happier, these days. He’s a lot more open with Lestrade. Half of him wonders if it’s because there’s a special someone in his life but he’s not going to assume. The last time he’d hinted at it his dad had closed off immediately. It doesn’t stop him from probing about Lestrade’s love life, though. ‘It’s funny…’ his dad stops and huffs. ‘I suppose you don’t remember.’

‘I remember.’

The sizzle of the steaks in the pan starts up and it’s louder than Lestrade expected. He hunts around for some potatoes instead, something to make it a complete meal. He hears his dad say something but doesn’t quite catch it.

‘Does he remember?’ his dad asks again, tilting his head up because, for some reason, he’s always thought that makes himself louder. Lestrade surveys the potatoes for a moment before deciding to leave them in their jackets. He puts them in the microwave, swapping them for the cooked vegetables, because it’s quicker than the oven and the steaks aren’t going to take long. Then he leans back against the counter.

‘I don’t think so. I don’t think he knew.’

‘Right,’ his dad says, non-committal, then clears his throat. ‘I’m only going to ask this once, but… do you…?’

Does Lestrade like Mycroft? Well, he doesn’t know him that well. They meet occasionally for lunch but there’s not much more to it than that. Maybe Lestrade wishes there was, but that’s irrelevant. The point is, he doesn’t really know enough about Mycroft to decide whether… he likes him. God, that sounds stupid. That’s an awful way of wording it. Mycroft’s certainly never shown anything remotely like interest. Not that Lestrade would… want him to. His mind is getting muddled now.

‘Not really,’ he assures his dad. ‘Just friends.’

It sticks in his head, though. Not the part concerning his emotions toward Mycroft, which he’s not sure he’d be able to pinpoint even if he sat down to analyse them, but the question about Mycroft knowing. About the engagement.

He almost forgets, himself, sometimes. It’s a vague thing at the back of his mind, something he knows happened but doesn’t really remember. He knows he once held a baby and thought strongly about the word engaged, but he hadn’t really known the meaning, and the memory of that baby is not one he associates with Mycroft now. He’s never brought it up because he’s never seen the point of it, but now he does wonder. He hesitant to think it, but he wonders if that’s why Mycroft’s been so kind to him. Humouring him with these lunches when it’s obvious they’re from two different worlds. He wonders if it’s obligation, linked to the same obligation his parents once felt toward Lestrade’s. He thinks about it. A lot.

When he does bring it up, it’s almost a relief to just get it out. He’s not sure blurting ‘did you know that we were engaged?’ midway through a discussion on sleeping habits was the right way to go about it, but it’s out there now, it’s done.

Mycroft chews thoughtfully and places his fork back onto his plate. He doesn’t look taken aback, but Lestrade’s not sure he could pull the expression off if he tried. He’s too calm.

‘Were we, now?’

Is that a joking tone? It could be, Lestrade’s sure he’s not imagining the amusement there. He never can quite tell with Mycroft, though.

Yes,’ Lestrade says slowly. ‘When you were born.’

Mycroft lifts his fork again, eyes set on his plate and not Lestrade. His eyebrows rise just slightly. ‘To be married,’ he murmurs, possibly with a question mark at the end.

‘Mycroft, stop messing with me. Just… tell me if you knew or not.’

Mycroft pauses, but he’s still not looking at Lestrade. Lestrade doesn’t know why, it’s a pretty simple question. In fact, he’s not even sure why he’s getting so worked up over it. It’s just… he never knows what the other man is bloody _thinking_ , and he’d thought they were friends but now he doesn’t know. What are either of them gaining from this friendship? Why does Mycroft even make this effort?

‘Look,’ he says, because Mycroft still hasn’t said anything, still looking at his damn plate. ‘Is that part of it? You agreeing to this… acquaintance, or whatever it is. Is it obligation? Because I don’t need that. I don’t need you to do anything you don’t want to, concerning me. I don’t want to drag this out if it’s something you hate doing.’

Mycroft’s lifted his eyes up, but his chin is still lowered. It’s a move he does a lot, to inspire intimidation, Lestrade has always thought. His mouth opens briefly, then thins into a hard line. ‘Do you not,’ he finally begins, ‘attend these lunches out of obligation, yourself? I assume that is why you’ve kept up this charade with me over such a prolonged period of time.’

‘What?’ Lestrade feels a tug on his scalp before he realises it’s his own hand, threaded through his hair. ‘You think _I’m_ doing this out of some misplaced sense of duty? Jesus.’

He’s seen Mycroft frown before, but without the man’s gaze rested on a recipient the expression looks directed solely at himself. It makes him look small.

Lestrade sighs. ‘Just answer me this. Are you only humouring me?’

Mycroft shakes his head. He looks up, at last, but his eyes are focussed somewhere over Lestrade’s shoulder. ‘I knew of the engagement. When you were sixteen and you minded my brother and I, I believe that our parents were attempting to come to some sort of agreement. Mine, at least. Your father, obviously, did not accept. But I knew before then.’ His forehead creases. ‘You were not what I was expecting, when I met you. You were kind. You weren’t condescending, like I thought you might have been. I thought my actions that night may have proved me to be blatant in my emotions. When events did not turn out and I saw you, all those years later, I assumed you remembered these emotions and,’ his face twists into something unhappy, ‘pitied me.’

‘Blatant. In your emotions. Mycroft–‘ he doesn’t mean to grin, not really ‘–you liked me?’

‘Gregory, I barely knew you. I was merely pleased with my parents’ decision.’

Lestrade groans. He feels foolish, all of a sudden. ‘We’ve been doing this all wrong. I thought you were a great kid, Mycroft. When I saw you that day in the tube, I invited you to coffee because I wanted to. There was never any pity. We’re idiots, you know that?’

‘I suppose we are.’

‘Let’s do it again, okay? Forget all the family stuff, let’s just be friends.’

‘Okay,’ Mycroft says. That’s all. Just one small okay, devoid of the usual clipped confidence. It’s the most sincere word Lestrade’s ever heard.

‘And Sherlock, too,’ Lestrade adds. ‘I want to see what that little guy’s up to.’

There it is, the mystical expression of Mycroft looking taken aback.

‘Good heavens,’ he says. ‘You’ll be affronted by what you see.’

 

**Age 46:**

‘Throw it out,’ Mycroft says sternly.

‘Please, I’m begging you.’

Mycroft gives him a pointed look, much more refined than the one he gave at age ten, and Lestrade crosses the distance to press his forehead to Mycroft’s cheek.

‘Please,’ he murmurs. ‘Please, please, please.’

Mycroft sighs and pushes him back gently. ‘Gregory, no,’ he says softly. ‘Don’t make me the villain, here.’

‘But the memories!’ Lestrade protests.

‘Sherlock going through withdrawals,’ Mycroft says flatly.

‘Me making DI,’ Lestrade counters.

‘That didn’t happen on that sofa.’

‘No, but it caused what _did_ happen.’

Mycroft purses his lips and, for a moment, Lestrade thinks he may have won. Then he places his fingers against Lestrade’s chin and says gently, ‘I’ll buy you a new one.’

‘I took it in off the streets. I rescued it.’

‘Do you want to get civil partnership?’

‘What?’

Mycroft’s still got his fingers on Lestrade’s chin, his expression as positively neutral as it could be. He pushes Lestrade’s jaw shut when it stays open for too long.

‘Where did this question come from?’

Mycroft sighs and steps back. ‘I’m just asking, Gregory. I thought if you were distracted you’d give a more straightforward answer.’

‘Is this compensation for getting rid of the sofa?’

‘You weren’t going to let me get rid of the sofa.’

‘I was,’ Lestrade assures him. ‘I was about to cave.’

‘I was just asking,’ Mycroft says again. ‘That was all.’

‘I do. Want to.’ He stops for a moment, then laughs. ‘What will our parents say?’

‘Congratulations, I would imagine.’

‘Yeah, but… It’s funny, isn’t it.’ Lestrade remembers, suddenly. He remembers his mother’s hand on his arm. Maybe it’s a product of time, of just wanting to know so badly that he’s fabricated the memory, but he suddenly remembers it clearly. He’s tucked into her side, looking at the cobwebs, wondering where the spider went. Her hand is on his arm and it’s warm. It’s dry. It’s like Mycroft’s hands, the first time he held the baby in his arms. ‘My mum would have loved you,’ he says, and can’t see Mycroft’s expression because he’s hugging the man tightly to himself. ‘As much as I do, I know it.’

It matters. It matters a lot that he remembers this, right now, in this moment. Holding Mycroft that day and being so scared he was going to drop him, thinking he was going to marry this tiny person, and then pushing that one memory down for decades after thinking it. Taking the path that he did in life to lead him here. Getting the hat and the badge and seeing the pride in his dad’s eyes. Striving for it, to get the life he wanted, to get the friend he’d always wanted, the man he wanted.

Mycroft returns the hold with a strength he didn’t expect, and then after a moment disentangles himself. ‘May we remove the sofa, in that case?’ he asks softly.

‘Yeah.’ Lestrade grins and runs a hand through his hair. ‘I can’t wait to see Sherlock’s face when we tell him. Hey, have you met John yet?’

Mycroft hums. ‘I have had the pleasure.’

That day that nearly started it all, where it all could have gone so right but just didn’t. When a ratbag kid lead a chase that ended with a familiar face, Lestrade writing his number down on the edge of Mycroft’s newspaper. He should have been more adamant about it. He should have tried harder to meet up. It doesn’t matter, they’re here, now. They made it, in the end.

‘I think I met him once before. I think he grabbed a perp for me and I asked him sit on the guy.’

Mycroft laughs, hearty and joyful. ‘I remember,’ he says brightly, like it’s an achievement, and it _is_ an achievement. Lestrade grabs him from behind and hugs him again.


End file.
